Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [92]
“Who are your suspects, son?” he repeated.
Perhaps he just wanted to shock his father. Common sense should have kept his mouth shut. Instead, he turned from the window and said, “One of them is Father Michael Keller.”
He watched his father stop rocking in the chair. The older man’s face registered surprise, then he shook his head and frustration creased the leather-like forehead.
“What the fuck are you trying to pull, Nick? A fucking priest—the media will crucify you. Is this your idea, or that pretty, little FBI agent the guys told me about?”
The guys. His guys. His department. Nick could imagine them laughing and making jokes about Maggie and him.
“Father Keller fits Agent O’Dell’s profile.”
“Nick, how many times do I have to tell you. You can’t go letting your Mr. Johnson make your decisions for you.”
“I’m not.” Nick’s face grew hot. He turned back toward the window, pretending to stare down at the streets, but his vision was blurred by his anger.
“O’Dell makes a good point. And I’m sure she makes a good omelet for breakfast after a night of fucking. Doesn’t mean you should listen to her.”
Nick rubbed a hand across his jaw and mouth to prevent the rage that formed its own words. He swallowed hard, waited, then turned to face his father again.
“This is my investigation, my decision, and I’m bringing in Father Keller for questioning.”
“Fine.” His father held up his hands in surrender. “Make a fucking asshole of yourself.” He got up and started for the door. “In the meantime, I’ll see if Gillick and Benjamin can round up some real suspects.”
He waited until his father was out the door and down the hall. Then Nick turned and slammed his fist into the wall. The rough texture ripped open his knuckles and pain shot up his arm. He tried to control his breathing, waiting for the rage to settle, for the frustration and humiliation to be overwhelmed by the pain. Then, without thinking, he wiped at the blood running down the wall using his white shirtsleeve. He already had to pay for a broken glass door; he couldn’t afford to have his office repainted, too.
CHAPTER 53
The house was dark when Christine pulled into the driveway. She loaded the warm pizza box on top of her laptop computer and realized she’d probably be eating the pizza herself if Timmy was still at one of his friends’ houses. He’d come home with storybook descriptions of something they called meatloaf and mashed potatoes—food that didn’t come from a can, a box or a carton. Surely he remembered the days when she had actually fixed real dinners and had them on the table at the same time every night. She wondered if he missed their life as a family. What had she cost him for the price of her own self-respect?
She fumbled through the dark foyer until she found the light switch. For some reason the quiet sent a chill down her spine. Perhaps it was only the wind. She kicked the front door closed and made her way to the kitchen, stopping by the answering machine. No blinking red light, no messages. How many times did she have to tell Timmy to call and leave a message? There was no excuse, especially now that she had a cellular phone, although even she hadn’t memorized that number yet.
She threw her coat over a kitchen chair and piled her computer and handbag onto its seat. The pizza’s aroma reminded her how hungry she was. After Eddie Gillick’s visit at Wanda’s, she had lost her appetite and left most of her lunch unfinished.
She poured herself a glass of wine, tucked a folded newspaper under her arm and scooped up a piece of pizza, using only a napkin as a plate. Hands filled, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the living room, finding refuge on the soft sofa. No food was allowed in the living room, especially on the sofa. She expected Timmy to come in at any moment and catch her in the act.
She set her dinner on the glass coffee table and unfolded the newspaper. This evening’s paper carried the same headline from the morning: